


fever bright

by heartofstanding



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Gen, Injury, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kili is injured. The thing is, Kili is all Fili has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fever bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seschat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seschat/gifts).



The thing is—

Fíli's heart thuds harder in his chest, he crushes his hand around Kíli's, wishes his brother is sensate enough to know that Fíli is with him, that Fíli will not leave him, even if the worst comes.

The thing is, Kíli is all Fíli has.

It's not, perhaps, strictly true. There's Mama and Thorin and Balin and Dwalin and their friends. For awhile, there was even their father. But in spite of Thorin's best efforts to split them into two units, they're still one package. In spite of all the things Kíli gets away with that Fíli could never get away with and all the roads that open to Fíli that will never be open for Kíli, they are still inseparable. Still Fíli-and-Kíli and there is nothing anybody could do it about.

Their father understood it, or so it seemed. When they were young, before he died, he'd called them _light_ and _life_ , telling them that you couldn't have life without the light or light without life, and it was the same for them.

Fíli knows, in the innermost recesses of his heart, Kíli is all he has. If Kíli dies (and the thought tastes like poison in his blood), if Kíli is _taken_ from him, then it will mean the end of Fíli. Breathing still, but no longer alive. No longer himself.

Biting back tears and pleas, he lowers his head to Kíli's sweat-streaked, fever-hot brow. His hands hover restlessly, the pain and sickness within him making them tremble. He watches through slitted eyes as Óin works, uttering voiceless prayers to the Maker, and his fingers clench uselessly in mid-air.

The thing is.

Kíli is all he has.

And he understands that, in a way he will never understand anything else.

+

Thorin pries him away when the worst is over, when Kíli is sleeping, restful, quiet and Óin is tending to him without urgency. He's dragged into the kitchen where Thorin has to hold tight onto his shoulders to prevent him from running back to Kíli's side.

'Boil some water,' Thorin says, his voice a low growl, 'For Mahal's sake, give Óin space to tend to your brother.'

It hurts, those words, like Fíli was just getting _in the way_ , preventing Óin from healing Kíli, and Fíli stares at Thorin long enough for his gaze to soften and his grip to loosen. Fíli pulls himself away, bends to take care of the fire, throwing kindling and heavier pieces of wood on until it is burning again. He scorches himself on the underside of his wrist and curses under his breath for a good while.

He turns to the kettle, adding more water to it, and then dumps it on top of the stove. He's sure they have no need for it. Óin has asked for nothing.

Only then, does Fíli turn his gaze back to Thorin, watches Thorin's fists clench and unclench. Then his eyes slide to the door, wonders if he can get away with watching Kíli from a distance.

'I,' Thorin says, his voice louder and surer, but no less of a growl, 'Am going to find the ones that did this and serve them justice myself.'

His hand reaches for the hilt of his sword as Dwalin reaches for his axe.

'Aye,' Dwalin says, 'This cannot be borne. The lad's but a boy. No decent folk would do this.'

Fíli's teeth grit. The one time they had been apart this trip – Thorin wanting Fíli for something he can't even remember – and someone had _hurt_ Kíli.

'Fíli? Are you coming?' Thorin jerks his head towards the door.

'I can't.'

Fíli means it. He'd love to get his hands on the ones that did this. Would love to make them hurt as badly as Kíli does, if not worse, make them cry and beg and realise they harmed the wrong dwarf. But he can't go with Thorin. Not now. He can't leave Kíli. He bites into his lip hard and tastes blood.

Thorin nods once, presses a hand to Fíli's shoulder. 'Stay here until Óin calls you,' he says, and then he's gone.

+

Every bone in Fíli's body seems to jump and twist. His hands refuse to be steady when he jerks the kettle off the stove and he nearly pours the whole lot of boiling water down his front. He sets it down on the bench, covers his face with his hands and tries just to focus on breathing. In and out. In and out.

He moves to the door, doesn't speak because he has _stay out of Óin's way_. But he watches, takes note of how still and quiet Kíli is in that bed. Every part of Fíli feels like a mess of jitters, waiting and watching and not knowing.

At last, Óin withdraws, pressing a wet cloth to Kíli's brow and heading for the kitchen.

'Is the water boiled? I'd love something not to drink right now.'

Fíli nods, goes through the motions of making tea and pouring it out. Óin takes his cup gratefully, holds it in his worn hands.

'He'll be all right, lad. Be a bit sore for awhile,' Óin shrugs, frowns, 'But he'll mend.'

Again, Fíli nods and says nothing. He heaves out a breath that feels heavier than it should, like there's a stone tied around it, and digs his fingers into the door frame. He wants to ask if he can sit with Kíli now, but doesn't dare. He takes a step down, studies the sight of his boot on the shabby wooden floor. There are a dozen steps to the bed Kíli lies on (not his, but Thorin's, the only decent bed in this place).

Óin catches him around the arm. 'Let him sleep, lad. He needs his rest.' The words aren't unkind, aren't cruel, but they make the ache in Fíli's heart grow. He wouldn't have woken Kíli, just sat and held his hand and changed the damp cloth on his head when it dried out.

'We should all rest,' Óin stretches slowly, rocking back on his heels. 'We don't know what the morning will bring.'

+

Óin is sleeping, snoring on the mat that passes for a bed. Fíli's pacing in the kitchen, keeps glancing between Óin and Kíli and wondering if he could away with disobeying both Óin and Thorin. He thinks he'll be sick if he has to wait much longer. The distance between him and Kíli crawls in his belly. Teeth digging into his lip, he turns his eyes back to Óin as he takes the step down into the main bedroom again. He closes his eyes.

Then—

The rustle of blankets and sheets, a restless murmur. Fíli jerks his head away, turns to Kíli and his slow wakening. He bites his tongue in his hurry to speak, though he hasn't quite worked out what to say, or who to say it to. Kíli blinks dazedly up at the ceiling and his mouth moves again, an agitated whisper that Fíli can't decipher. He takes another step, and it frustrates him, how all the jittery worry he has felt has dissolved into this inability to move or speak.

Carefully, slowly, Kíli props himself up on his elbows and winces. 'Fíli?' He says, then, louder, 'Fíli?'

That, at last, breaks the ice that holds Fíli captive and he's running those last few steps and stopping beside the bed. He takes Kíli's arm and tries to ease him back down on the bed. 'Lie down. It's okay, Kíli, it's okay, you're fine. You've just got to rest.'

Kíli doesn't go down easily, twisting to get his hand curled around Fíli's. His eyes are confused, but they seem to grow a little clearer with every breath Kíli takes. He manages a tiny smile.

'I know,' he says. For a moment, it looks like he'll say more, but he closes his mouth and allows Fíli to push him firmly down.

'Stay here,' Fíli says, because Kíli is yet to learn that when you're hurt and weak, you stay in bed and let others fuss over you. 'I'll get you something to drink.'

The next few minutes Fíli seems to spend rushing around in the kitchen, finding the pitcher of cold water and then cutting up bread and cheese. Soup or stew would be better, Fíli thinks, nearly slicing the tips of his fingers off. He curses, hears Kíli shift in the bed and calls out for him to stay put.

He dumps the plate and cup on the table by the bed, gets Kíli to take sips of the water and then tries to get him to eat. Kíli is not exactly keen, shaking his head each time Fíli offers. The pain in Fíli's heart flares again.

'I – I'd have given you soup or stew,' Fíli says, 'But we don't have any. I'll go out and see if I can find some.'

He rises from the chair by the bed but Kíli reaches out and grabs him around the wrist and Fíli goes still. What if something's wrong, what if he should be calling for Óin and finding Thorin because the worst is happening? What if Óin is wrong, if Kíli is not better? Fíli feels his breaths growing quicker and quicker, the bile burning in his throat.

' _Fíli_.' Kíli squeezes his wrist, hard. 'Fíli, _stop_. I'm fine, just.' Kíli shakes his head, squeezes his wrist again. 'Don't you pass out on me.'

It takes a great effort for Fíli to force his breath to even out. He has to dredge up memories of Thorin's lectures on duty and inheritance. He manages a smile, just for Kíli, and reaches out to brush his hair back from his face.

'I won't,' he says, though the words feel like grit caught in his teeth.

Kíli nods. 'I'm fine, I'm just... not hungry.' He twines their hands together, smiles. 'Come on.' Slowly, carefully, Kíli edges over, making room on the bed. With each cautious move, Fíli feels his hand being tugged closer. 'Sit with me.'

Fíli shakes his head. 'Kíli, I can't, you're injured. Thorin would have my head. I—'

'Please.'

How could Fíli resist that? He nods and warily sinks his weight down to the bed and then lies down, keeping his body stiff. Within moments, Kíli rolls over, pressing his head onto Fíli's shoulder. It's a warm, comforting weight, even if Kíli smells of the sour herbs Óin has used. If Fíli cranes his head an uncomfortable angle, he can see the white bandage around Kíli's torso, but Kíli whines each time he does.

'I mean it,' he finally says, 'I'm going to be fine.'

'I was so scared,' Fíli says, quietly, biting his lip, 'I thought—'

'Shh,' Kíli says, poking a finger into his ribs, 'Everything's okay.'

'I thought I was going to lose you,' Fíli whispers those words into Kíli's hair, shifts to hold him closer.

Kíli's eyes slit open. 'Never,' he says, and he smiles. 'We're a pair, remember? Can't have one without the other.'

Fíli smiles, despite himself, and the pain in his chest lessens for the first time. Kíli throws a lazy arm over his chest, grasps his shoulder.

'As long as you remember that,' Kíli murmurs into his shoulder, and Fíli can't tell whether his voice is slurred from tiredness or illness or the fact that Kíli's mouth is pressed hard against his shoulder, 'We'll be fine.'

'Yes,' Fíli says, drawing Kíli closer. He squeezes his eyes shut to keep himself from crying. 'We will be. You get some sleep now.'

Kíli nuzzles closer, and however tired and slurred his voice is, there's no denying that there is all the firmness of an order in it. 'You too.'

Barely, Fíli can see Kíli's lips curving into a smile and for the first time he feels, the sweet rush of relief throughout him. He believes, at last, that Kíli is fine. 


End file.
